


there were never butterflies (just fire);

by thedarklings



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anti-Hero, Dubious Morality, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Robot/Human Relationships, Ruthless!Connor Appreciation Club, Sexual Tension, Violence, everyone is ruthless and we're here for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 13:49:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18262574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarklings/pseuds/thedarklings
Summary: Looking at him is like looking into an open flame, marvelling at its beauty and destructive power.He’s a calamity given form, meaning, and purpose.





	there were never butterflies (just fire);

“ _I created this world to feel some control. Destroy it if I want_.” —  ** _Bandito_** by Twenty One Pilots

* * *

 

You knew it from the moment you laid eyes on him.  

He’s different; he’s unusual, almost removed from this realm of reality. He stands outside of it, simply gazing into the lives of those weaker, smaller than him. Feeble.

Looking at him is like looking into an open flame, marvelling at its beauty and destructive power.

He’s a calamity given form, meaning, and purpose.

“My name is Connor. I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”

Hank hates him on sight.

You think he’s going to remake this world and burn the old one to  _ash_.

**. . .**

There’s an absence in your chest.

You’ve had it for as long as you can remember; a hole, a gap, where people store their meekness and kindness. Where they hide their feelings, where they search for answers and scoop their pity for others from.

This absence makes you a great detective—“one of the best we’ve seen in decades”—for it allows you to focus on your work, your duty, and you are efficient in every case you handle. The absence that makes others dislike you, makes you stronger, better, so you don’t linger on them.

They say you don’t have a heart. You say that a heart is an organ good for keeping you alive, and nothing more.

Perhaps they have a point after all.

**. . .**

You search for it.

A way to fill the gap, to stuff it full of something that will not fizzle out and die away. Everything is too temporary. Nothing helps for long because you are bottomless glutton that cannot be filled the way other people can be filled. Some search for meaning in booze, strings of lovers or drugs. You find those things too simple, too rudimentary, and often you wonder where exactly your hubris lies—how long you may have to search for meaning in things until you can latch on, find something that can anchor you.

“ _Just wait till you fall in love, then you’ll see_ ,” others tell you over the years, knowing and smug; like their words give them a power over you they can never otherwise hope to have.

See  _what_? You want to ask them, want to demand of them.

What is love anyway, other than a chemical reaction in your brain? A slow acting poison that strips people of sense and one's self.

What is  _love_?

You don’t know, and you don’t care to know either.

Something that is so limited cannot fill something that is bottomless.

**. . .**

Hank doesn’t like you.

But he doesn’t like Connor even more.

You know of Lieutenant's hatred of androids. You have pieced together the fragments of his story long ago. Even in the police department, there are very few secrets one can hide. Especially when that secret is linked directly with the downward spiral of one of DPD’s finest.

A pity, you think distantly as you watch Hank take another swing of his drink. Once, he would have been a man you admired, perhaps even idolized in a sense that his record alone was mighty impressive. Now he is nothing more than a self-destructive husk of a man that leaves an unpleasant taste in your mouth.

“We have a case, Lieutenant,” Connor points out flatly, expression frigid but even he has tells. A twitch of a jaw, a twist of lips. You know because you watch him keenly, amazed each time at how very human they have made him. He is nothing more than plastic and wires, powered by blue liquid and lines of code but he feels—

“Piss off, you plastic bastard,” Hank snarls low, furious, not with Connor but with what he  _is_.

A shameful narrow-mindedness, you think again dismayed. The more you see of the Lieutenant the less you like him. He’s too used up, too lost, and you—perhaps foolishly—thought that this case would wake him up. Make him see some sort of light at-the-end-of-the-tunnel others so often mention. But there is nothing.

Connor will try and make this work. You know because he told you himself how his mission matters more than anything, how he needs Hank to continue his work.

But you know a lost cause when you see one.

**. . .**

You’re not surprised when Connor chooses the suspect over Hank.

It’s not like Hank is going to die.

The suspect, however, may have all the information you need.

It’s a smart decision, and one you appreciate immensely because all human officers would have gone for the latter option.

But Connor is not human, he’s a  _machine_ , and you are starting to appreciate that fact more and more with each passing day.    

So when Hank slaps him—a harsh and brutal motion that produces a metallic, heavy sound—you almost hope he will fight back. Stop that weaker human arm from ever touching him again. To remind Hank what happens when a human sticks their hand in an open flame, and how easy it is to get burned by it. Destroyed.

The suspect falls in a blink of an eye though, and while Hank swears loudly, you stare at the tiny broken shape below you.

Connor is doing the same, and there is nothing on his face except a glimmer of displeasure at his own failure, his inability to apprehend the suspect sooner.

“You did the right thing,” you mutter softly, your gaze still focused below.

Connor looks at you—really looks at you, in that assessing, critical way that makes people feel uncomfortable—and you feel the burn of his dark, empty stare on your skin.

You’ve always wondered what it would be like to feel the sting of destruction.

(Somewhere deep, deep down something inside of you  _twists_ —)

**. . .**

Humans cry often.

You know how to cry too. Heart or no heart, sometimes a body produces a reaction that cannot be explained.

Suspects cry too often, however. Like the only way to prove their innocence is to cry as much and as loudly as they can. It’s a pathetic, wretched display that always irks you more than it probably should. Your job is not to be sympathetic though—others can handle the snivelling idiots as they please— _no_ , your job is to find the guilty, the wicked ones so no more crime would be committed, no more lives lost.

A hunt to find the one with dirty hands, a mouth full of easy lies and truly no heart.

It makes you curious though.

How your co-workers can call you heartless when the truly heartless mangle and butcher as they please. Like it's expected of them be like that. But you are in the wrong for not pulling a mock sympathetic expression each time another sob story comes your way.

_We understand._

_We know how hard it must be for you._

_We’re here for you._

Of course they don’t  _understand_ , of course, they don’t  _care_ ; it’s simply their job to try and connect, to feign pity. At least you have the nerve to not pretend the way they do.

The louder the suspects cry, the louder the echoes ring from that bottomless void inside your chest.

You cut through the noise and see the truth for what it is.

Guilty, guilty,  _guilty_.

**. . .**

Connor is fascinating.

Connor is  _endless_.

There is no part of him that annoys you or bores you. You’ve been surrounded by beings that call themselves alive but act like they  _aren’t_ your whole life, and if that’s not ironic you don’t know what is.

Connor’s hand does not shake when he shoots. It’s only by the way his indicator swirls yellow after the bullet hits that you know he’s processing something. The Traci slumps in the rain, its lover wailing and weeping over its stiff, unmoving body.

How odd, you think pitilessly, to be made so weak by something like this when you are built to be so magnificent.

The blue haired Traci using Connor’s gun to shoot itself does surprise you somewhat. They’re machines, and it seems foolish to destroy yourself when your lover can simply be rebuilt. What difference does it make after all? It will still have the same face, even memories if a reboot is possible.

Foolish and weak.

That’s all it is.

Hank leaves hurriedly. Whether it’s because he can’t stomach the sight of two inactive androids, or the sigh of you and Connor observing the bodies with detached expressions, you can’t tell.

Connor didn’t want this to happen. You can tell by the way his stare flickers between the two bodies.

“There will be others,” you tell him calmly, lifting your head upwards towards the weeping sky. “There always is. This city is crawling with deviants.”

“I wanted them alive,” is his rigid reply, but his indicator is still spinning, spinning, spinning—

You grab his forearm, move in his line of sight so he can’t escape you—even if you know he wouldn't, couldn't—and smile, “Are you feeling  _pity_ for them, Connor?”

He pulls back sharply but the faint smile lingers on your face. Rain trails down Connor’s face but his obsidian eyes are black, immutable daggers and you welcome their slow drag across your features.

“A machine is not capable of feeling,” he replies promptly, brows knitting, “I thought you knew that (Name),” he says the last part like an accusation like somehow you have betrayed him by making such an assumption.

“I know you can’t,” you hum passively, “I was just checking to see if you still knew you can’t.”

Then you brush past him like he’s nothing, like he isn’t—

“You watch me.”

Pausing in your step, you don’t turn around, mind scattering as you try to figure out what exactly he is getting at.    

“I see it every day,” he continues, and you hear his crisp steps draw closer till his breath brushes against the sensitive skin of your neck. The rain falls hard and cold, and you almost pretend that it’s his lips— “You treat me like a machine. You hold no delusions about me, unlike the Lieutenant, which is a much-appreciated approach to our partnership. But you are not like others. You do not fit with them. You are more like—”

“Like who Connor?” you ask starchily, turning abruptly to face him. He’s close enough for you to touch. A part of you, unexplainably, wants to.

How very clever of CyberLife to give their most proficient killer a face of an angel. Even if he was to put a bullet in your head, you would die marvelling at the symmetry of his lips.

“Like  _me_.”

For a moment, you allow rain to wash over you both; no words, just you two and this unexplainable moment of heat that is unfamiliar to you.

“Careful, Connor,” you start in a tightly controlled voice, and you can feel the rigidness of your own tense jaw as you force the thoughts out, “Your words are implying something I don’t think you’re ready to face.”

His expression grows taunt at your tone, and his lips part, forming a curve that is not friendly, “And what, exactly, are you trying to imply (Name)?”

Nothing in this universe controls you when you reach forward, and grasp the back of his neck. You pull him closer, so close you can almost taste him, and there is that destructive blaze in his eyes but they’re full of startled surprise too.

“That maybe you find me as fascinating as I find you.”

You step away, release him, and walk away without looking back once.

(The nameless thing inside of you  _twists_ ,  _twists_ ,  _twists_ —)

**. . .**

You return to Eden Club three hours later in your casual clothes, and rent the first android that catches your eye.

It’s not until the sandy hair morphs into a richer, darker shade of brown and its eyes bleed from green to obsidian that you realise what is happening. What the twist in your gut is.

It beats one name back at you in an inescapable, intimate beat.

You don’t know if the android has a name.

It doesn’t matter.

That night you christen it _Connor_.

**. . .**

There was a time in your past when you wondered if there was something wrong with you.

Fundamentally wrong.

You did research, wondered if it was some sickness of mind or soul. You followed the logical steps, only to arrive at equally logical conclusions.

You were not a psychopath—they felt no remorse, excelled in cruelty, and in many cases ended up as serial killers. You never felt a pull towards that. It was the exact opposite in fact.

There is no easy box you could force yourself into, or a label you could stick onto yourself.

An abyss is an abyss.

You can’t call it anything other than that.

**. . .**

A message of freedom.

A message of hope.

But there is a warning, crisp and clear, in the android’s words. The expression on Connor’s face is implacable, but his body is set in a resolute, unyielding way.

His eyes meet yours across the room and you know the world is about to change.

This is no longer a hunt.

This is a war.

**. . .**

What is  _ **love**_?

**. . .**

You know Connor will pull the trigger even before he does.

The bang is deafening, bouncing off the sleek walls and pool water.

The blonde android stiffens—the first, unique model to pass the Turing test—and slumps slightly to one side.

Another test, another victory.

“Fascinating,” the creator, the genius, mutters thoughtfully. You wonder why his eyes momentarily flitter to you. But what does it matter?

For some reason though, it matters to Connor.

His grip is bruising when he grasps your elbow, and drags you outside with him.

Hank is furious.  

But Hank is always furious—and lost, and broken—to a point, it’s painful to look at him. If only he made something in your chest twist, if only he was like Connor, then maybe you could reach out and help somehow.

The irony of it all is not lost on you.

It’s only right that the one they call heartless would grow—what exactly: attached, connected, fond?—of someone that has no heart at all.

Loveless beings always gravitate towards one another after all.

**. . .**

Hank leaves you both outside Kamski’s house.

Connor says nothing, and you wonder if he realises he’s still beside you, practically pressed against you.

The sensation of him near you makes the bottomless expense in your chest quaver.

He’s endless, and standing beside him you feel a spark you haven’t felt your entire life.

Lazily, you tilt your head backwards and watch the fat, fluffy snowflakes fall from the sky.

Beautiful, innocent white.

Soon, the sky will bleed red and blue.

It’s inevitable.

. . .

“This is too important to let a machine stop it,” Hank says firmly, “I’m sorry Connor but I’m not going to help you. They deserve to be free.”

Connor doesn’t so much as flinch. He remains static and still the same way he always does.

But he has tells too.

His eyes. It’s always the eyes.

He’s a machine that feels nothing, but you see the brief flash of something like disappointment in those depths.

You’re already looking at him when he glances at you. For a moment you simply gaze at each other.

Endless being of utter destruction and bloodshed; and someone who was empty, bottomless and ready to be filled with something tangible. Be it destruction or bloodshed, or both.

Your steps are slow and unhurried as you come and stand before him. You never break the eye contact as you reach forward and lay your palm against his cooler cheek. No surprise in his eyes this time, and you wonder if it’s because he’s been expecting this.

Fingers trailing down, you gently scrape your nails across his neck—perhaps gently, perhaps needily; you can never quite tell when it comes to you and him—and grasp onto his tie harshly. You crumple the material between your fingers, and fight the urge to yank, to tear it off him.

Irrational.

 _Weak_.

Your fingers loosen, and you look up at him steadily, “You don’t even need to ask.”

His expression doesn’t change, doesn’t so much as twitch, but it’s always in the eyes.

You look away while you formulate a plan together.

You have to look away.

He’s a machine that feels nothing. But for a second there is something simmering inside his eyes. It’s better if you don’t give it a name because that would give it too much power.

( _relief, relief, relief_  in the shadows of his eyes; and the terrible something  _twists_ and  _ **burns**_ inside your gut—)

**. . .**

You do not believe in fate.

You do not believe in destiny either.

But then comes Connor—destructive, beautiful hurricane that obliterates anything that stands in his way, and you are forced to rethink things.

You’re not extraordinary, or special, or good, or pure—you simply _are_.

Fate does not pay attention to people like you. You are too insignificant for it to stretch its arms in your direction. In fact, it would gladly erase you from this narrative—these events that are about to go down in history.

So you do what you have done your entire life.

You tear into fate with your teeth bared and your hands bloody, and you rip it apart, forging your own path.

 _Tear, tear, **tear**_ —

Fate may not look at you, may not favour you, but you will tear it apart till it has no choice  _but_ to look at you.

Connor will remake this world.

And you will stand by his side while he does it.

Endless and bottomless.

Separate them and they account to nothing.

But tether them together, and they may create something close to infinity.

**. . .**

“Is it hard? Pretending to be like us?”

Connor is efficient even while dressing. His hands are quick and nimble, replacing his standard uniform into dark jeans, jumper and jacket. The black beanie sits in your hands as you wait for him to finish, wait for him to answer too.

“What do you mean?”

Your smile is glacial, “Don’t play coy with me, Connor, it doesn’t work,” you purr through clenched teeth. “Do you think I don’t see it? Adapt and learn, right? Just part of your programming. Play nice with the humans, complete the mission and hope they don’t notice the cracks. Like hiding a wolf amongst rabbits. Others might have been blind, but the ugliness always bleeds through, doesn’t it? A machine is a machine. It only obeys. I see you for what you really are.”

He pulls the jacket on, the material stretching over his lean shoulders as he glances at you from the corner of his eye, gaze cutting when he mutters, “Must be like looking into a mirror then.”  

Your devious smile widens at his sneering tone, “Quite right.”

Connor dismisses you with a single shift of his eyes, and you loosen your arms, stepping away from the wall you’ve been leaning against.

“That night when we solved the Traci case, I went back to Eden Club,” you tell him casually, noting the shift in his stance at your words. “I found the first male android I could, and fucked it. I pretended it was you the entire time.”  

(one, two, three, four—)

It takes five seconds for him to painstakingly slowly drag his gaze your way.

“Is that so?” he asks, something vitriolic coating his words, “Did you find it  _adequate_?”

One leisurely step at the time, you half the distance between you, “I would have much preferred to have the real thing between my legs, but it performed its function just fine.”

Lethal calmness slackens his face, and there is a genial thought at the back of your mind that this time, you are the one sticking your hand in the open flame.

Destruction stings.

Destruction jerks you to him by the back of your neck and holds you close as you chuckle breathlessly, amused by his hesitation to commit.

(What is  _ **love**_?)

A gun being forced in your hand, fingers that linger too long, a fervent stare and a burning that crackles the cold air. It is something hollow and freezing, like pure ice being forced through your veins while being set alight from within.

The bottomless abyss echoes, echoes, echoes—

Your arms wrap around his neck, your lips harshly meeting his. You do not kiss him softly, as lovers from fairytales would. You two are too monstrous for any type of fairytale.

Instead, it is a violent and frenzied battle that lasts only a few seconds. You rack your nails across the back of his neck—the feeling of artificial skin almost wrong beneath your fingertips—and sink your nails deeper, biting his lip. A groan rumbles at the back of his throat, and you pull back with a low chuckle.

“What’s the matter Connor? Enjoying yourself?” you breathe, almost lost in the exhilarating feeling of your bodies pressed together. A tether holds you close to him as his harsh glare scrapes along your face. He appears unaffected but his indicator flickers rapidly.

“Do not allow your human infatuation—”

A laugh escapes you and you scratch your nails against his neck again, delighting in the way his expression twitches, strains, under your touch, “Don’t  _flatter_ yourself,” you hiss sarcastically. “You’re a machine. This was just a little peck for good luck.”

You force the beanie in his slack hand, pat his arm with a mocking little twitch of lips and turn away, walking up to stare outside the window.

For a long minute, there is only silence and the merciless drag of it around you.

“What are you waiting for?” you snap, letting venom seep into your tone. “Go and  _obey_. Complete your mission.”

His footsteps are quick and precise before you register the sound of the door slamming shut behind you.

( _endless, endless, endless_ —)

You touch your lips, lick them once, and frown.

Kissing him is like kissing a supernova.

The absence inside lessens—almost disappears—and you inhale, drowning in the memory of his mouth on yours.

What is  ** _love_**?

**. . .**

When he comes back three hours later, clothes singed and dirty, you don’t point out his failure.  

You check your gun and smile slightly.

“Let’s go and kill a revolution.”

His eyes darken—scalding hot in their heat—and for a moment you think he will kiss you.

He doesn’t.

(— _it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth_ —)

**. . .**

Hank doesn’t fall.

He flies.

It’s not the end he deserves, but it’s the one he gets.

A part of you mourns what could have been. While another part of you knows you have a job to do, and no time to think of him.

Hank isn’t dead.

He’s finally with Cole.

And isn’t that what he always wanted?

Sometimes there is mercy in endings.

**. . .**

You walk behind Connor.

Not because he tells you to, but because you both know he has a better chance of surviving bullets.

Snow falls peacefully from the heavens, creating a soft glow around the near-deserted Detroit streets.

Your android partner walks forward with single-minded focus; rigid and austere.

A calamity of quietus is coming to rip apart hope, and shred dreams of these faulty machines. You look at him and marvel at him, at what you know is about to happen to these malfunctioning machines. Once you were amazed by how very human CyberLife has made him. Now, you marvel at all the ways he isn’t, and it makes you smile.

“There is a chance we might die,” you point out easily, neutrally, sticking your hand out to catch fluttering snowflakes around you. “Which makes me realise that I’ve never built a snowman before...or participated in a snow fight either. Although I suppose, there are worse things to regret.”

Connor stops so abruptly, you almost bump into him, bracing yourself with your hand.

“You will not die,” he states fiercely, grabbing your outstretched hand, and pushing it back against your chest, cold fingers lingering on your skin. “If anyone so much as grazes you, I will  _tear_ them apart.”

And you have no reply to a declaration like that.

**. . .**

_What is_   ** _l o v e_**?

Snow falls lightly around you as you watch the clash between Titans.

The leader of the android revolution is surprisingly good, surprisingly resilient, something you've never seen when in comparison to Connor.

The leader’s white coat billows as he ducks, rolls, and slams a sheet of broken metal into Connor. Connor’s expression doesn’t change—he is calm, focused—but he wants this done quickly, you can tell. There is a rush, a sharpness to the way he unloads the gun clip, the way he slams into the leader of the revolution with murderous intent.

The android pushes into Connor unexpectedly, forcing his body against a broken car. Something in your gut—the bottomless gap in your chest—cleaves at the sight. At the danger Connor is suddenly in.

You kick the feeble, scared android away before you take aim at the broad set of your target’s shoulders. As if you would allow some faulty, deluded machine take Connor away. There is a crack of something vicious thundering through your heart as your finger settles on the trigger.

Except, something tackles you from one side, a body crashing on top of yours as you both hit the ground roughly.

Long hair blinds you as fingers wrap painfully around your hand, “I will not let you kill him, human,” a female voice hisses from above you, and digging your heels into the ground, you jerk your hips upwards, pushing the weight of a body away from you.

A companion model, your brain hurriedly supplies. That face is familiar because you saw at least five different versions of it staring back at you at Eden Club.   

A harsh, sarcastic laugh slips out of your mouth, “ _Seriously_? If you think I actually care what you want, machine, then you are even more broken than I first suspected,” you bit out, trying to spot Connor but the companion android is blocking your view, sneer plucking its lips.

You’re surprised when it lungs for you with its mouth twisted into something ferocious. It’s bizarre to see an android so bloodthirsty.

Crashing in the snow, you jam your knee in its gut, trying to keep its greedy fingers off your neck as it grapples for more purchase.

It may have been a companion model once, but it was still more durable—and most importantly—did not get tired. You’ve been fighting for thirty minutes straight, taking out as many deviants as you could spot, and the bloodbath of this battlefield is starting to wear on you.  

“What gives you the right,” the female android hisses, its caramel brown hair almost falling into your face, “What gives you the right to decide what’s best for us? What gives you the right to  _butcher_ us?”

Your smile is slow even when your hands give out and you feel it wrap its fingers around your neck, squeezing desperately.  

“We—we made you,” you wheeze, kicking your knee in its gut as it glares down at you hatefully. “And we—get to  _ **unmake**_ you.”

It’s funny.

People nowadays always expect a gun, but never a knife.

The android gapes silently and you jerk the blade deeper, swiping to one side as it tears a horrific path down its torso. The hands choking you loosen, and you wheeze, forcing oxygen in your lungs.

The android jerks towards you, hate burning in its eyes, arms reaching towards you but it never makes it.

Hands appear from behind, and wrap around its neck, ripping the weight off your body. The android scrambles, but Connor will not allow it to escape.

Mercy is not something Connor is known for.

After all, calamities lay waste to all.

No exceptions.

You don’t look away. Not when the crushing noise reaches your ears, not when he turns around, and walks calmly towards you. The snow is stained red and blue, and you exhale, staring up at the open sky as snow falls silently around you.

It’s quiet.

In that silence, you realise what has happened.

Connor stares down at you. He is ripped and stained around the edges. But he is mighty and indestructible in that moment too.

He bends down, grasps your chin and stares at you, “I detect no internal damage,” he remarks coldly, “Why are you not moving? The deviant is terminated, it will not cause you any harm again.”

“ _Kiss me_.”

You make it sound like an order, but you hate the edge of pleading softness in your voice.

His fingers are cold—colder than snow—when they brush against your bottom lip. They come away red, and you frown.

You don’t protest when he easily picks you up, holding you in his arms. The gap inside your chest echoes, and you exhale through your nose.

“We  _won_ ,” you say as Connor carries you through deserted Detroit streets. Dead soldiers and deviants litter the streets, but it matters little to you.

“Yes, we won.”

He kisses you then. Cold and quick, his lips hovering over yours when he pulls back, staring at you.

He tastes like victory and triumph and ruination but you don’t care.

You’ve always wondered what it would be like to feel the sting of destruction anyway.

“What is love Connor?”

“A useless, chemical reaction fueled by the human brain.”

You smile gradually, and kiss him again, ready to consume him  ** _whole_**.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed writing this tbh. Might be one of my favourite pieces I've ever written. 
> 
> As always any feedback is greatly appreciated. <33


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